Warmed to a Chill
by ShowYourWings
Summary: No one knew, but Sirius Black had a family too. Two children, a wife. When he got carted away, we moved to muggle america. Now, as he finally contacts us, things are crazier then ever. My name is Ryan Black, and this is my story.


**Hey everyone! It's You'reEverything! Now this story isn't mine, it's my older brothers. He is writing this story on figment (dot) com and I asked if I could turn it into a Harry Potter fan fiction. He said if I didn't change it too much that I could. So here is ****Warmed to a Chill**** by: Ryan Greer (and his little sister). **

**Summary: Not sure yet, but it's about Sirius' Children and how they have to deal with a muggle life while their father is in Azkaban**

**DISCLAIMED!**

The sun was too thin to warm, but full enough still to sting my eyes as I stood listlessly on the edge of my street. Frustrating how it picked and chose how it used intensity, only tentatively timid. Half-reflexively I kicked my foot against the curb, scuffing yet again my mangled canvas sneakers, the new gouges to the rubber sidewall brighter than the old. I stared at the residue of rubber that clung to the curb, and then squinted against the pain of the brightness as I glanced up the road. The wind just pierced my thin jacket enough to make me eager to go inside, but I knew I would soon feel stifled again as I had twice already that day. No cars approached from the direction in which I looked, and I didn't hear any behind me, though that didn't mean much. I'd almost been run over many times before, somehow not hearing the deep growl of the vehicle that bore down upon me. I guess it's one of those things where you only hear what you want, and none of what you don't. In any case, I was glad the street was empty. It allowed the placidity of the suburban setting to seep through the walls of the cookie-cutter houses from their expertly positioned furniture, precisely placed to guarantee optimal energy flow. It leaked in spurts from the carefully manicured shrubs and still dormant perennials that were so lovingly tended to by housewives and househusbands and (reluctantly) house children. But this profound stillness and peace was easily startled, and retreated into these condensed constructs of orderliness by each passing vehicle, and every motor that hummed. The smallest purr from the quietest top-of-the-line lawn tending device frightened it as midnight settlings in a house terrorize a small child. This crystal calm is quite fragile.

Luckily, it retained strength enough to tolerate a brooding adolescent in ill-fitting clothes and an eager but easily off-put female younger sibling, who chattered irrelevantly and unevenly. She would bring something up, and try to flavor it to my tastes. Not being the connoisseur of information I am, she vastly misjudges what I would like to hear and so I firmly rebut her, adding my indication of why she's wrong, not chastising or accusatory, but matter-of-fact-ly. Revealing, as is her wont, that she is no true human but a composition of the ideas and tastes of whoever is closest, she reverses her opinion to suit mine, and again tries to flavor it to please me. She fails. Repeat ad infinitum.

We are the perfect un-duo, she and I. We should work well together, according to the movies. Opposites just set up perfect jokes, right? And everyone that knows us agrees, we're total opposites!

They're quite wrong, though. What they fail to perceive is that not everything in life is a liner spectrum. And so my miniaturized personal tormentor and I are not the opposite extremes of a single scale, but rather similar in the way a sea sponge is to a chunk of quartz, which is to say, not at all. And so compatibility flies out the window and we're left with two people who simply refuse to have a rapport that is anything but infuriating to both of them. We're both trying to play the straight man.

Sadly, her Straight Man concept evidently involves filling the air with inane fluff until it appears a blizzard. The peace in the suburbs remains, but only just.

The peace in this facsimile of the suburbs, rather. The set of condos and townhouses hastily stitched onto the lovely suburbs to give the less fortunate a taste of the American dream and allow the slightly less affluent a chance to further lessen their wealth. But still, the pleasant air of suburbia pervades it, and this incessant chipmunk will not let well enough alone and let me think.

I stop responding. She doesn't know how to continue. She stops trying for responses. A silken breath of nothing floats between us, and I distinctly hear or imagine the turning of gears as she processes what has happened. Her visage appears momentarily older, and I am so startled by the sudden resemblance she bears to me that I look away, examining with strange gusto a particular shrub. The note of silence in the air vibrates, and settles into contemplative. Her voice thinly shines from off screen.

"Have you written a letter to him yet?"

The shrub is still fascinating.

"No."

**Chapters**

The Street is quiet today.

The Scent of Potato: Bland and Starchy.


End file.
